


Alone, Together

by piefight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Break Up, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Avengers Are a Band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piefight/pseuds/piefight
Summary: A short story about my two favorite boys, the singular pain of love lost, and how, sometimes, we can put ourselves back together anyway.





	1. CHAPTER ONE: The Bitter Wind.

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly spend time on AO3 for the fluff and feels—but for some reason, this is not that. It starts pretty heavy, but, as they say, [spoiler!] it gets better. This is a sorta-ambitious (for me, anyway) project where I try to tell a tough story in thirteen parts. It may have started as an assignment from a creative writing course I'm taking online. *grins*
> 
> Seeing that my main goal here is to become a better writer, and maybe to exorcise some demons, I'd love to hear some feedback from you, dear reader!

>   
> When we were still in love I sang a happy song But now I all hear is the bitter wind That whispers love is gone.  
> — The Bitter Wind, a song by Jude Johnstone sung by Trisha Yearwood, on Inside/Out

Over one hundred feet below the rocks glistened invitingly in the vague and dying light of this last day Steve intended to be alive. Gray and wet, jagged-sharp and sea- slapped, the rocks looked not like rocks but like chipped and broken teeth set against a dark and snarling lip of sea.

Now it was just a matter of burying the dead, he thought, of burying what in so many ways could not be unburied, at least not in the literal sense, because all that was left was something that had already died, died so completely that he couldn't remember it being alive, nor remember what it was like to take a breath that he had a right to, to wake up and claim a day as his own, as a beginning, as something new, as something containing possibility, as something other than what stretched before him now, a flat and endless expanse of time not lived, but merely endured, walked through as one would trudge through knee-deep mud, not even knowing why, not even asking why, not even caring why, not even being, just doing.

His head dangled off the edge of the cliff as he continued to stare at the rocks through tired and bloodshot eyes. His body was haphazardly sprawled behind him as if it had been tossed there like a toy no one wanted anymore, limp and lifeless except for his bare feet digging into the damp clay for leverage.

It won't hurt, he thought to let his breath escape in a long hiss that sounded like an old tire leaking air, because hurting takes feeling, and there are no feelings anymore, only deadness, which is not a feeling, not even the absence of a feeling. Maybe if he could feel something — anything — even if it was only pain, then it would be different, and he could crawl away from this edge, and crawl away and not look at the rocks like there was no place else in the world where he belonged. But this is how it had been for exactly one year, and he wasn't going to let it be this way for one day more. It couldn't be.

Looking at his watch — more by instinct, than anything else, because he did not need to know what time it was, nor care — he remembered that he had smashed the crystal of his watch against a rock and ripped the hour hand from its face, and then the minute and second hands too. He stared at the watch, blinking as freezing sea-scented wind stung his eyes, and he remembered his calm, methodic destruction of its ability to tell time, to tell him the time, and he remembered that Bucky had given him this watch, given it to him on his 25th birthday, given it to him when it was still possible to commemorate the passing of year, to commemorate it with gifts and joy and celebration and love and even hope for the future. He remembered everything — as if it were happening yet again.

* * *

"We're here Steve," Bucky said, shaking him gently awake. "We're home."

"Oh, good," said Steve, straightening up in the passenger seat of Bucky's car from the sleep-hunched position he had been in moments ago, and cracking his knuckles against the dashboard. "It's dark. Do you know what time it is?"

Bucky opened the door on his side of the car and stepped out. "Yeah . . . it's just past eleven-thirty," he replied sticking his head back in the car so that he could grab the empty Pepsi bottle from the cup-holder by the gearshift. "You've been asleep for two hours."

"Sorry `bout that," Steve said, reaching into the backseat for his coat and then getting out of the car himself. "Didn't mean to leave you to drive alone."

"I wasn't alone," said Bucky.

"You know what I mean," Steve replied.

"Yeah, I guess I do," said Bucky. "It's okay though."

Steve walked toward the house, stopping at the door to dig into the pocket of the coat he held, searching for his keys. Not finding them in the one pocket, Steve shook the coat up and down to listen for the metallic-jangle-clank that would tell him they were there somewhere. Steve heard the keys, but before he could retrieve them Bucky was by his side and inserting his own key into the lock, throwing Steve a triumphant look and opening the door himself.

"Fuck you," Steve muttered under his breath, not really caring if Bucky heard him.

Steve pushed by Bucky and threw his coat at the old wooden chair that sat next to the grandfather clock in the foyer. Grabbing his still out-thrown arm, Bucky pulled Steve back toward him. Steve stopped but did not allow himself to be turned around, waiting instead for Bucky to circle around to face him, like he always did. Once Bucky was in front of him, Steve looked into Bucky's eyes and said "yes," almost forgetting to turn it into a question, an invitation for Bucky to say what he obviously wanted to say and would say even if Steve said nothing at all.

"I love you," said Bucky quietly.

"I know," said Steve, his face blank and expressionless.

Bucky waited for Steve to say something more, to say "I love you too", to say "thank you for loving me", to say "thank you for standing by me all these years," to say "thank you for agreeing to leave the band with me." But Steve said nothing as he stared past Bucky and listened to clock tick, and waited for Bucky to give up and let go of his arm.

"Time for bed, I guess," said Bucky, releasing his grip on Steve. "It's late and we're both tired."

Steve turned away from Bucky and headed without a word toward the stairs. Climbing the stairs, Steve dreaded the conversation that he knew Bucky would try to start as soon as they lay in bed, a conversation that would inevitably start with a question — always a question. Are you okay? Do you want to talk? Are you mad at me? Do you still love me? Or — worst of all — Do you want to make love? It took every ounce of self-control to keep from saying, You mean with you?

Bucky watched Steve climb the stairs not knowing what else to do or say. He had thought that Steve would be so happy, so happy to have finally gotten his way, finally gotten him to agree to leave the group with him, to walk away at the very height of their fame, to walk away when there seemed to be no limit to how much bigger they could become, and no limit to how much more they could do.

"But how much more could you want," he remembered Steve asking him for what seemed like the thousandth time. Steve had been on him about this for a year, and each time it was the same argument. "Bucky — listen to me! We have each other, don't we? Isn't that what you are always saying, always saying fifty fucking times a day? So what in the fuck else do you think we need? More fucking money? More fucking fame?"

Bucky remembered that he never knew what to say to this because Steve was right. Steve was always right. And he remembered that all he could ever think to do was to walk to Steve and hug him, whispering "I'm sorry, Steve. You're right. You're right." Then he would bury his face in the bend of Steve's neck and feel the stinging warmth of his angry skin. "I'm sorry Steve. I love you so much. Please don't be mad. Please." And Steve would never say a word then, but at least he did not push him away.

Bucky was startled from this memory by the unexpected chiming of the clock. "Wow," he said, counting the chimes but knowing it was now midnight. After picking up Steve's coat from where it had slid to the floor, and then throwing away the Pepsi bottle he still held, Bucky turned and slowly climbed the stairs. He lifted Steve's coat to his nose and inhaled deeply. At the top of the stairs, Bucky looked down the hallway to see if the door to the bedroom was open and it was. Good, he thought. Good.

Bucky entered the bedroom, walked to his side of the bed, and quietly undressed. The room was dark with the curtains drawn, but Bucky knew Steve was still awake by the sound of his breathing. He had spent too many hours lying next to Steve in bed to not know what he sounded like when still awake.

As Bucky stood and listened to Steve breathe, he toyed with the waistband of his boxer-briefs, trying to decide whether to leave them on or take them off, trying to decide whether Steve might want to make love. Bucky decided to leave them on and slid into bed, careful not to bounce the mattress, or to accidentally touch Steve's leg.

Pulling the sheet up to his chin, Bucky felt Steve's hand slide under his thigh. Steve slid over next to Bucky and then roughly rolled on top of him. Bucky could feel Steve's erection pressing damply against his leg, and feel Steve's breath on his lips, knowing without seeing that Steve's face was inches from his own and that a kiss was hanging just above his lips like fruit waiting to be plucked.

"Steve," Bucky whispered slowly.

Steve kissed Bucky before he could say anything else, not so much to quiet him, but to get on with it, to get it over, to finish, and go to sleep. He reached roughly between Bucky's legs to see if he was hard, knowing that wouldn't be, knowing that Bucky was never hard anymore, at least not at first, not without some coaxing. Fuck, he thought as his fingers touched the fabric of Bucky's boxer briefs, he's wearing underwear.

Pulling his mouth away from Bucky's lips, Steve said, "I want to fuck you."

Saying it, Steve knew that Bucky hated him saying that, hated it when he called it fucking, when he didn't call it making love. But Steve couldn't bring himself to say that anymore, to say making love, to say words that he knew would be a lie because he knew couldn't make love anymore, not to Bucky, and not to anyone. Steve knew — knew and accepted — that he could only fuck now. And so that's what he did, with whoever was around. He didn't care who he fucked because it just didn't matter, not anymore. Anyway, he thought, it only seemed like cheating when he fucked Bucky because he knew Bucky wanted more, needed more, more than Steve seemed able to give him, give anyone. At least when he fucked some stranger, some nameless person that he couldn't care less about, it didn't seem so wrong, it didn't seem like a lie like it did with Bucky.

"I want to fuck you," Steve said again, meaning it, but also thinking — I'd make love to you if I could Bucky, I really would.

Bucky pulled his mouth away from Steve's kiss. "Okay, baby," he whispered. "Wait a second while I get these off."

Steve rolled off Bucky and waited while Bucky shucked off his boxer briefs. Steve knew they were black, they were always black, and he knew that Bucky looked so sexy in those things, so fucking sexy. He remembered the delight he used to feel watching Bucky bend over every morning, his skin still dewed with shower-steam, watching Bucky step into those black boxer briefs, gently-slow and toe-first, like he was stepping into a puddle of warm water, and watching him slowly pull them up the trunks of his long lithe legs, pull them up like he had all the time in the world, like he knew he was giving Steve the gift of one more glimpse of his beautiful ass. And it had never failed to make Steve's dick instantly hard, never failed to cause Steve to pull Bucky back into bed, back into his arms, so that moments later those black boxers briefs would be off again, and on the floor next to the bed, while Steve and Bucky made love, wicked and hot.

Steve was startled by the fervor of this memory, and the fire that it seemed able to inspire. He reached out and touched Bucky's arm. "Come here, Buck," Steve said, still wanting to get this done with, to earn this momentary release, to empty himself into Bucky and then escape to the darkness of sleep, to the dark not-being of sleep.

Bucky wished he could see Steve, wished he could turn on some small light in the room and see Steve's face, see his eyes, even if those eyes lately seemed only to stare, but never see, at least not him. "I love you, Steve," Bucky said, sliding toward Steve's embrace. "I love you so much." Steve kissed him in silent reply, pressing his lips hard against Bucky's mouth, opening it with his own, and running his tongue across Bucky's teeth, enjoying the cold scrape of sharpness.

It did not take long for Steve to enter Bucky and start the piston-steady in and out that Bucky could barely bring himself to call making love. Bucky held tightly to Steve's neck, his legs tucked up against his chest, receiving each thrust with a determination and gratefulness that frightened him because he did not understand it, but felt it, and was glad for it still. Bucky could feel his half-hard penis beginning to swell against the friction of his legs and the frantic pounding of Steve on top of him, and he could feel the sweat begin to form on Steve's neck. Bucky knew they would be done soon, and Steve would pull out and roll off him without a word, without a single word, leaving only the dark and silence to press down on him.

Bucky pulled his mouth back from Steve's insistent kissing and whispered, "Yeah, baby. Come on." Bucky could feel the panting hot breath on his neck that always came before the final letting go. He could feel the quickening tempo of in and out. He could feel the sticky-moist heat of skin on skin. He could feel his own excitement build, and he willed himself closer to it, hoping that he could come with Steve still in him, not after, not after when all there was to do was finish it off himself, or just not to bother, and hold Steve's hand instead, to hold it and not let go no matter what.

Steve could feel his balls start to pull up and tighten and he knew he was close, so close. He held his breath as his climax neared, and then he was there, so there.

"Oh fuck, yes," Steve gasped, surprised at the intensity of it, at the near joy of it. "Oh god, Wade. . ."

Hearing it before he even heard it, Bucky thrust his legs forward with more strength than he knew he possessed, more strength than he did possess, pushing Steve violently away, flinging him backward and off the end of the bed and onto the floor.

Steve hit the floor with a crumpled thud and did not try to stand up or move or say anything at all. Steve just quietly waited, waited to hear Bucky's angry voice, waited for the bitter and tearful rebuke that he knew he deserved, and now even wanted.

Bucky lay on the bed for what seemed to him like a very long time, waiting to see if Steve would stand up or say anything. When he did not, and it was plain that Steve would lay there on the floor all night unless Bucky said something himself, Bucky stood up and walked over to the light switch and turned it on. Steve was laying on his side at the foot of the bed, his body curved like a question mark, his eyes shut tight against the light.

Bucky stared at him and tried to remember how he had fallen in love with this man, why he had devoted the last seven years to loving him and no one else, how he had done everything Steve ever asked of him, and how he had never asked anything ever in return except to be loved, except to be loved.

Then Bucky spoke.

"Get out," he said. "Get out and never come back."

* * *

Steve remembered, remembered it as if it was happening, remembered how he had heard those words and been stunned by their finality, by their certainty, and by their complete and utter truth, heard the words that had left him no choice but to do exactly as asked, to leave, to leave and not go back.

Tears filled his eyes as pain suddenly seared through the deadening fog of despair, making him gasp like someone who had forgotten to breathe or was just resurfacing from being under water too long.

"Oh, god," he cried. "Oh, god."

Steve pulled his legs up against his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, trying to compress himself into the smallest space possible, as if he was not entitled to more space than his scrunched body now filled. He shivered and sobbed and gasped for breath between each sob, rocking slowly back and forth in the damp-darkened dirt.

Finally, slowly, Steve unfurled his arms, and then his legs, and shakily stood up, wobbling like a just born colt. He turned toward the edge of the cliff and looked out toward the horizon where the moon lightened the night sky. Tears cut furrows in his clay-stained face, and he turned to walk away — even though he knew not where, and even though it didn't matter anyway because all Steve could hear was the bitter wind as it whispered love is gone.


	2. What We Have Lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these first two chapters are bleak; I fucking hate breaking these boys up. But I'm excited to explore their relationship in the past tense while navigating a painful present.
> 
> I hope someone likes this, even if it's a bit bleak now. Leave a comment if you do enjoy it (or even if you don't!)

> For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation — a descent follows, endless and indestructible.  
>  — William Carlos Williams Paterson

Bucky did not watch Steve go. Instead, Bucky walked out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the backyard. Now Bucky sat naked on the grass, his legs splayed awkwardly in front of him, his head tilted back like a doll with a broken neck. The words still echoed in his head — Get out. Get out and never come back — words he had spit out like a bad taste in his mouth. Get out. Get out. Get. Out.

And because he was in the backyard sitting on the grass, Bucky did not see Steve get up off the floor, slowly, like a boxer rising from the canvas after a knockout. He did not see Steve put his clothes back on. He did not see Steve slide the ring from his finger and place it on the table next to the bed, next to the photograph taken on the day that Bucky and Steve had together told everyone in the band that they were in love. He did not see Steve pick the ring back up and put it back on his finger, tears in his eyes, gasping. He did not see Steve descend the stairs, open the front door, pause, and then walk out. All Bucky saw was the endless canopy of night sky, blurred by the angry tears in his eyes.

Bucky finally stood and walked back into the house, brushing off grass from where it clung to his butt and the back of his legs. He noticed immediately that the front door was open, and knew that Steve was gone. Bucky walked to the door and shut it without looking outside. He knew that Steve was gone; he did not need to look, and did not want to.

Bucky stood for several minutes at the bottom of the stairs, frozen in indecision, not knowing what else to do but just stand there. "I should sleep," he said, knowing as soon as he said it that he would never be able to sleep, never be able to close his eyes. Or at least lie down, he thought, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and tucking a fist in each armpit. Yes, I should lie down and try to rest. That's what I should do. Lie down and try to get some rest.

The clock chimed as Bucky slowly climbed the stairs. Each step he took was slow and tentative as if Bucky feared the stairs might collapse beneath him if he was not cautious. His eyes stared straight ahead, dry and unblinking. His breathing was deep and steady. I will not cry, he thought.

Bucky reached the top of the stairs and headed down the hall to the bedroom, slowing as he noticed the light spilling from the open door, afraid of what it might reveal. He stopped three or so feet from the door and stared at the blurry border of light bleeding into black, staring at it like it was a pool of unknown depth, like he was deciding whether to jump in and try to swim across.

Closing his eyes, Bucky plunged into the room. He did not know what to expect except that he knew that the light would hurt his eyes once he opened them. Get on with it, Bucky scolded himself. Open your damn eyes.

Bucky opened his eyes and looked at the bed, blinking. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Bucky walked to the bed, pulled off the sheets, and tossed them in a pile next to the chest of drawers, not far from where Steve landed when Bucky had kicked him out of bed — literally kicked him. After stripping the cases from the pillows, and adding them to the pile, Bucky pulled the mattress half off the bed and struggled to flip it over. It was a king size mattress and he had never tried to flip it by himself before.

After several attempts, Bucky succeeded in flipping the mattress, and sliding it safely back into place. He then retrieved a neatly folded set of sheets and pillowcases from the bathroom closet and remade the bed, pulling the sheets so tight that the bed looked almost like a trampoline.

"There," Bucky said, staring at the bed. "Now I can take shower. Then I can lie down and get some rest."

The sound of his own voice was reassuring; it made Bucky feel like he was in control somehow, like everything was going exactly as planned. Just keep it moving and everything will be fine, he thought. First shower. Then rest.

Bucky walked back into the bathroom, trying hard not to look in the mirror. The slate tiles felt cold on Bucky's bare feet. When they had built the house three years ago, Steve insisted on the slate tiles, Bucky remembered. Just as Steve had insisted on a slate-tiled shower stall separate from the bathtub and big enough for two people to shower together, for him and Steve to shower together, soap-lathered and laughing, every morning.

Bucky blinked hard, trying to push this memory away, and failing. When did it stop, he wondered. When did we stop showering together? We did it for years, every morning, even on the road. Not making love there. Not needing to because it was good enough to be washing each other's hair, kissing under the water as lather streamed down our faces, our eyes clenched tight against the sting of soap.

* * * * *

"Hey," Steve said, reaching over to brush the hair from Bucky's eyes.

"Hey," Bucky said.

"Hey," Steve repeated, laughing. "If we're ever gonna do this again, we need to get some better morning-after dialogue, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Bucky said. "I think talking is highly overrated."

"Only compared to kissing you," Steve whispered, pulling Bucky's face toward his own and kiss Bucky with lick-dampened lips.

Steve pulled Bucky on top of him, wanting to feel his skin — and the weight of his body — press down on him.

"Do you wanna shower," Bucky asked, barely managing to speak through Steve's insistent kissing, breathing the words into Steve's mouth. "We're all sticky."

"Sticky is good," Steve said, and kissed Bucky again.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "Sticky is good. Your sticky. But we gotta be downstairs in twenty minutes."

"Yeah," Steve said, resting his head back on the pillow and looking up into eyes filled with a joy he would not have understood had he not so fully felt it himself. "But you have to shower with me."

"Well, Mr. Rogers, I thought you'd never ask," Bucky laughed, rolling off Steve and getting out of bed. "Shall we?"

* * * * *

Bucky reached out with his left hand and gripped the edge of the thick glass wall that separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom. The sudden intrusion of memory had left his legs unsteady, and Bucky feared that he might fall. Keep moving, Bucky repeated to himself, trying again to push away the memory of that first shower with Steve, that first shower that had been followed by hundreds of other showers, each one as good as the first.

"Do you know how happy you made me?" Bucky shouted, his grip sliding down the shower's glass wall as his legs folded and his knees hit the floor with a dull thud. "Do you know how FUCKING happy you made me?"

Bucky clasped his hands tightly together, brought them to his forehead, and then leaned forward, as if in prayer, until his hands touched the floor, and his forehead pressed against them. Tears flowed over Bucky's hands as his body was wracked with convulsive sobs. His back arched and heaved forward in violent and choking waves.

"You made me happy, Steve," Bucky cried. "You did. But you never believed me. You never believed me. You never believed you could make anyone happy. But I was. I really was. And you never believed me."

Bucky opened his eyes and saw the shower drain. It was clogged with hair. Raising his head off his fists, Bucky examined the hair more closely, and saw that it was a knot of brown and blond strands. It was Steve's hair tangled with his own.

Bucky stood up and stepped out of the shower, feeling suddenly cold and exposed, and walked out of the bathroom. The clothes he had taken off last night before getting into bed with Steve remained in a neat pile. Bucky reached down and pulled on his boxer briefs, and then his jeans, and then his T-shirt — the black one with the red number seven on the sleeve — and then he sat down on the bed. Bucky thought again of the hair in the drain and suddenly realized that he had made a mistake in thinking that he could make Steve go away, in thinking that mere words could make Steve gone — really gone.

You're still here, he thought. Still here but not here, not like before.

Bucky looked at the bedclothes piled on the floor and he knew that, if he looked, he would find where semen had leaked from Steve's cock after sex. Bucky knew he could bury his face in those sheets and find the smell of Steve's sweat, and maybe even taste it. He knew he could go to the laundry room and rummage through the clothes waiting to be washed, and find Steve's boxer shorts suffused with the rank, pungent scent that Bucky had smelled a thousand times when he buried his nose between Steve's legs and licked and licked and licked, always delighted that something as simple as having Steve hard and in his mouth could be so startlingly wonderful and could fill him with such joy.

Bucky also knew he could go to the sofa in the TV room and find Steve's socks where every night shucked them off with his toes and stuffed them barefooted behind a cushion. He knew he could go to the dishwasher and find a dozen spoons with which Steve had eaten cereal every morning — Captain Crunch, Cheerios, Apple-Jacks, Trix, Wheaties, and Frosted Flakes — two bowls, one after the other, with milk dripping from his chin, and a distracted smile on his face.

Bucky knew he could walk back into the bathroom and find Steve's orange-handled toothbrush and, if he licked the bristles, they would taste almost like a kiss. Bucky knew he could find Steve's electric razor and it would be filled with the very same whiskers that had sometimes scratched his face. He knew he could find the cologne that Steve had worn every day for the entire time that Bucky had known him, and he could spray some on his pillow and with closed-eyes almost imagine that Steve was asleep next to him.

And then there was one more thing that Bucky knew. He had to find Steve.


	3. A Place We've Never Been Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Not much to say other than let me know how you like the story so far.

 

 

> I give the fight up: let there be an end,  
>  A privacy, an obscure nook for me.  
>  I want to be forgotten even by God.  
>  — Robert Browning, Paracelsus (1835)

It was not the kind of hotel he usually stayed in, but it was clean. More important, it was one block from the bar he lately called home. Steve had checked into the hotel thirteen days ago after he had arrived in Seattle and hailed a cab at the airport and told the driver to take him anywhere downtown, it didn't matter where.

Steve had walked around for a long time before finding it — a place called the Aurora Hotel — and he was relieved when the old man at the front desk didn't even blink when he paid cash for three weeks in advance and signed the registration card in a nearly illegible scrawl with the name Mickey Mouse. It was then Steve knew that he had found the right place, a place where no one knew him, and no one cared, a place where people like him went to forget and to be forgotten.

Now Steve lay in bed, one arm across his eyes, trying to sleep, but failing. He lifted his arm and turned his head to look at his watch, which he had propped against the lamp that sat next to the bed. The room didn't have an alarm clock — not that he needed one — and Steve wanted to see what time it was without having to reach over to pick the watch up and look at it. It was seven a.m.

The bar's been open for an hour, Steve thought. I'm late.

Steve kicked off the sheet and thin blanket that had covered his legs, sat up, and swung his feet to the cold, battered linoleum floor. From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Steve could see into the cramped, dimly lit bathroom. A light bulb hung from the ceiling on a gray cord. The light was always on because Steve could not figure out how to turn it off. There was no switch on the wall.

Steve stood up, walked into the bathroom, and peed into the rust-stained toilet, watching the hard stream of urine froth the water, weaken into a trickle, and then stop. Shaking off the last drips of urine, Steve noticed his clothes in a pile on the floor — the same clothes he had been wearing since he left San Diego — the Wrangler blue jeans with the torn left knee, the black T-shirt, and the scuffed tennis shoes, the red and blue suede ones with a long white swoop on each side. Steve had somehow lost — or thrown away — his boxer shorts; he couldn't remember which, and now he didn't care.

Steve dressed quickly, not bothering to shower first. He checked his back pocket to make sure his wallet was still there, and it was. Putting on his watch, he looked out the window to see what the weather was like. Cloudy, but no rain. Another great day to get shit-faced, he thought and headed toward the door.

 ~

"Oh, and a big, nice living room too," Bucky added, "so me and Steve can hang out by ourselves and watch movies or TV, and listen to music and stuff."

"Yeah, and a kitchen too," Steve said, picking up where Bucky had left off. "Because we'll want to cook upstairs, you know, and have breakfasts and dinners together, so I guess we'll need our own dining room too."

"We'll have to buy two sets of dishes," Bucky said, laughing and turning to Steve. "They're gonna love us at the china store."

"Yeah," Steve said, reaching out to squeeze Bucky's hand. "So, what else . . . Oh, I know. We need our own deck, too, for when we want to sit outside, and watch the sunset, or maybe eat dinner out there, or just look at the stars, or . . . . "

"Oh," Bucky said, loudly interrupting Steve before he completed his last sentence "Steve, you can set-up your telescope out on the deck."

"Yeah," Steve said, the excitement plain in his voice, his green eyes flashing like beach glass reflecting the summer sun, his gaze tilting toward the ceiling as if imagining what the deck would look like and how it would be to look at the stars through the telescope that Bucky had bought him for Christmas. "That will be so cool."

And so Bucky and Steve had built two houses, one on top of the other — one house that they shared with the world, and one that they shared only with each other. Bucky remembered how Steve always called the upstairs their "secret tree-house club" and laughingly blocked Bucky's path every night as he tried to climb up the stairs. And Bucky remembered how Steve had every night demanded that Bucky tell him the password first, before he'd be allowed upstairs, a password that was always every night a kiss. Now Bucky could not bring himself to climb those stairs, even if he could still remember the password; there was no one there to kiss.

~ 

"Yeah," Steve replied. "And a shot of Jack too."

Steve had already given the bartender the usual hundred bucks, reminding the old guy to let him know when it was down to thirty, because then he'd give him another hundred. The bartender liked this arrangement because he knew that Steve didn't keep track, or couldn't. The bartender was honest about it all the same, since it'd be pretty lousy to cheat a guy who was giving you several thirty buck tips every day.

The bartender set the beer and shot in front of Steve and nodded. Steve looked at the shot for a moment, making himself count to ten, and then he lifted the glass to his lips and tilted it back, not minding the sting, welcoming it, and the blooming warmth that followed the sting, and then the long sigh, and the shudder, like after a good hard piss.

That was good, Steve thought, suddenly thinking of that line from the movie _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ where Paul Newman's character — what was his name — Brick, yeah, Brick — he was telling Big-Daddy how he had to keep drinking, how he drank only to find oblivion, how — what did he call it — how when he was drinking he was waiting for that "CLICK" in his head, how he was waiting for the click in his head that made him feel peaceful, like a switch, clicking in his head, turning the hot light off and the cool one on and, all of a sudden, there's peace.

Steve looked up from staring at the empty shot glass and noticed that someone had taken a seat on the barstool next to him. He stole a quick glance at his new neighbor and saw that he was young, maybe twenty-one or so, and handsome in a rough way.

"You got the time," the young man asked, trying to start up a conversation, something that Steve was trying to avoid.

"Yeah," said Steve, taking a quick look at his watch. "It's quarter after nine."

"So what's doing," the young man continued. "What's going on?"

"Just waiting for the click," Steve said quietly before standing up and moving to a different place at the bar. Just waiting for the click.

 ~

"Fuck you."

"Sam . . . please don't hang up," said Bucky in a voice so frankly full of pleading that it shocked Sam into momentary silence. "Please."

"Are you okay," Sam asked, his voice drained of all anger.

"No," Bucky said, almost in a whisper. "Not really."

"What's happened? Is it Steve?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, a sob catching in his throat. "He's gone. I kicked him out and now he's gone."

"Not for good, though," Sam said, trying to make his voice sound hopeful, but suspecting that his hope might be misplaced. "I mean, how long have you two been together, like two hundred years or something?"

Bucky was silent for nearly a minute, trying not to cry. "It was seven years in March," he finally said. "March eleven. Steve made lasagna, and we ate upstairs on the deck, and . . . and there were, uhh, candles, and we had. . . uhh. . . we had . . ."

Bucky started to cry and could not go on. Sam waited for him to stop crying and just listened instead. The weeping steadied eventually to a different rhythm, a more sustainable breathing, a stillness. Sam had not been close to Bucky for some time — even before he and Steve had announced they were leaving the band — but listening to him now, the way the sobs seemed so desperate and defeated, it made Sam sadder than he'd imagined was possible.

"Look. . . umm, Bucky, do you think you can hang on for a little while," Sam said, hearing only muffled sobs in reply. "Bucky. . . . Bucky. Listen to me!"

Bucky managed to stop crying for a moment, and said "what?"

"Are you at home?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Bucky said, noisily snuffling his nose. "Why?"

"Okay," Sam said as reassuringly as he could manage. "I'll be there in a couple of hours. I'm in L.A. for a meeting about my new album, but that'll be done in an hour or so, and then I'm gonna drive down to see you."

"No," Bucky said, trying to sound sure. "You don't have to . . ."

"Look," Sam said, cutting Bucky off. "I'm coming down, so save your breath."

Now, crying again, Bucky listened to Sam's words and could think of nothing to say except, "Thank you, Sam."

~

Sam had been on the road for over an hour at least, driving south on I-5 toward San Diego. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, so there was not much traffic yet. The July sun was high in the sky, and the air was dry and warm.

Sam tried to remember when it was that Steve and Bucky had first moved to the West Coast. At least three years ago, he thought. It was around the time Bucky and Steve had gathered the band together and nervously told everyone they were in love. As if that hadn't been obvious from day one, thought Sam, smiling at the memory of Bucky standing there trying to get the words out, and Steve finally blurting it out for him.

"Look guys, we're in love," Steve had said. "And we just want to be honest about it, okay, because lying about it and hiding it makes it seem wrong, and it isn't."

"Yeah," Bucky had added. "It isn't."

And it wasn't, Sam thought. It wasn't wrong at all. It was totally right.

Sam saw the exit that he needed to take to get to Bucky's house and steered his gold Jaguar XKE off the highway, and brought it to a slow stop at the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp. Sam wasn't sure what he'd do once he got to the house, but he knew he needed to do something to keep Bucky from falling apart.

Maybe just get him out of that house, Sam thought. He's gonna go crazy if he stays in that place. Maybe just get him out to dinner, someplace where he's never been before, someplace where he and Steve have never been before so that Bucky won't sit there staring at his food thinking every second about what happened between him and Steve — whatever the fuck that was. This is all so fucked up. First they go and bust up the band — which was not really a bad thing, since I've been wanting out for a while anyway — but then they go and bust themselves up. It's totally fucked.

Man, Sam thought, shaking his head. If these two can't stay together, then there's no hope for the rest of us.

 ~

There was a long and noticeable pause while Steve's manager, Nick Fury, tried hard not to go immediately on the attack, and fought down the urge to scream: You fucking idiot, Steve, do you want to destroy your goddamn career before it's even started? Instead, he calmly said, "Are you okay Steve?"

"Yeah," Steve muttered, unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

"Where are you," Nick asked.

"Nowhere," Steve answered. "Nowhere at all."

"Look, Steve," Nick continued. "You have to be in Montreal at the end of the month, August 7 at the latest, and I ain't kidding you about this."

"Montreal?" Steve said, not bothering to mask the fact that he had forgotten why he had to be there.

"Steve!" Nick yelled, unable to control his temper. "Your next film starts shooting soon, and you need to be there for rehearsals, and . . . Jesus _FUCKING_ Christ!"

"Yeah, I remember," Steve said, even though he didn't.

"Steve . . . listen to me. You need to get it together here. This ain't no small fry shit. You're on the cusp. This is it. It's the real deal. This next film, they wanted you bad, and that's a real damn good thing. You blow this, and it's over. So, whatever shit you got going right now, get it over with, and get it over real fucking quick, because if you fuck this up, it's fucked up for good, and there ain't a goddamn thing I'm ever going to be able to do about it. You hear me?"

Steve let the echo of the angry words slowly disappear from inside his head. "Nick, I'm in Seattle, a place I never been before. I had to get away, to be gone. But I'll get my ass to Montreal, and I'll get it there on time. So chill out."

Nick let out a long, loud sigh, and leaned forward in his chair, speaking softly. "Steve, I need you to be there. Really. And I need you to be together . . . Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Steve dismissively.

"No, goddamn it, I mean it, Steve," Nick said, yelling again. "I'm tired of being the babysitter here."

"Well, Nicky," said Steve, knowing that he hated to be called that. "It's not like I haven't heard it before. Anything else you need to tell me?"

"Yeah," Nick said, trying to take his voice down a tone or too, trying to sound like a friend again. " _The Ghost Road_ release is being put off a month because the director wants to get a theme song for it, some weepy ballad love song thing."

Steve knew he should say something, but he remained silent, mostly because he really didn't care one way or the other.

"Anyway," Nick continued, "it's probably gonna fuck up the filming schedule for this next film, but I'm going to work all that out. I just wanted you to know that I'm on top of it, and I'll let you know as soon as I got a drop-dead date on the release."

"Okay," said Steve, feeling tired, and wanting to get back to Sonya's. "Anything else you need to tell me."

"No," said Nick. "No . . . wait! I got a call today from Jamie at Freelance. I guess Bucky has called like four or five times, asking if anyone's heard from you or knows where you are. What's up with that? You want me to call him or something, and tell Bucky you're all right?"

Steve hung up the phone and stared at the receiver like it was a bomb about ready to explode. I should really call him, Steve thought, not really knowing whether he could make himself do it, and hating himself for the not knowing, and feeling weak and useless besides. Call him, Steve thought, at least so he doesn't think you're dead.

Then Steve thought: Maybe it's better if Bucky thinks I'm dead. But he knew that wasn't true, knew it immediately, just like he knew that he might as well stab Bucky himself, stab him a hundred thousand times, rather than let Bucky think that he was dead. I never deserved you, Steve thought, slowly dialing their phone number,

I never deserved you, Steve thought, slowly dialing their phone number, dialing it like a twelve-year-old trying to open the combination lock on his high school locker on the first day of school, terrified of getting it wrong.

Steve listened to the telephone ring. 

One.

Two.

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

And then he heard the click and the sound of the answering machine picking up.

"Hi, you have reached Steve and Bucky." It was their private line. And Bucky's voice. Steve wondered whether he could sit on the ground and still have enough cord to hear the rest of the message. We're sorry we missed your call, but if you leave a message, we'll call you back next time we get a chance. BEEP.

Part of Steve was grateful that Bucky had not answered the phone, while another part of him was panic-stricken over what might have happened to Bucky. Another part of him was struck silent by the burden of thinking of something to say. And another part of him just wanted to have another drink and be rid of it all. Moments passed and he had no idea how long those moments were, until a car horn busted through the night silence and made Steve drop the phone, and almost swear.

Steve lunged for the receiver as it dropped and swung away from him. Managing finally to grab the phone, Steve quickly slammed it into down, hanging up. He stared at the phone, not knowing what else to do, fiercely angry that he had messed up something as easy as saying, Bucky, I'm all right. Don't worry. I'm alive.

But I'm not all right, Steve thought. And I'm not really alive.

Steve knew there was nothing to say now, nothing to do, and there was no reason to call back and try again. Turning around and heading back to Sonya's, Steve looked back over his shoulder at the phone.

"I love you, Buck," Steve whispered.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR: Around Midnight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky finally begin to deal with how much they miss each other — in very different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost someone they loved, especially recently.

 

> Midnight shakes the memory  
>  As a madman shakes a dead geranium.  
>  — T. S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night (1917).

AUGUST 1, 2016, Montreal, 11:55 P.M.

Air Canada flight 269 touched down at the Dorval Airport in Montreal just before midnight. The impact of the landing jarred Steve awake, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He remembered sleeping for most of the four-hour flight from Seattle to Toronto, where he had cleared customs and then waited for his connecting flight to Montreal.

Steve now wondered whether Nick had arranged for a limousine to pick him up at the airport, although he assumed he'd done so; he always did. Steve was anxious to get checked into his hotel and crawl into bed and sleep. All he wanted to do anymore was sleep, to lay in the dark, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

As the plane pulled into the gate, Steve undid his seatbelt and prepared to stand up as soon as the fasten-your-seatbelt sign blinked off. He wanted to be the first one off the plane and get to the limousine as quickly as possible. He didn't want to be seen or recognized. He'd managed to remain anonymous while in Seattle, and Steve wanted to keep it that way for a little while longer if he could.

Steve was soon off the plane and walking fast and head down through the airport and toward the baggage claim area. He pulled the brown stocking cap he was wearing low over his eyes, and buried his chin deep into the wide, upturned lapels of a new wool peacoat. He'd bought the cap and the coat at an Army-Navy Surplus store two blocks from his hotel in Seattle, along with black jeans, a pair of socks, a gray long-sleeved T- shirt, and some khaki-green boxer shorts that reminded him of the kind he had worn while making his last film, The Ghost Road.

The limousine was sitting at the curb outside the baggage claim area. Seeing it, Steve lunged for the door handle like someone who feared that a pursuer was only inches from catching him. Inside the car, Steve looked at the driver and nodded a silent hello.

"Mr. Rogers?" the driver asked.

"Yeah. That's me," Steve said, sighing hard. "Let's get going."

AUGUST 2, 2016, San Diego, 12:15 A.M.

> This is the first time I've written in this journal since Steve left. I'm not sure why I've been avoiding it, or even if I really have been avoiding it. It's more like I can't think of anything to say, like I don't have any words left, or I don't have the right words to say what it is I want to say.
> 
> When Sam was here last week, it was good to see him, to have some company, and to know that there was someone here in the house with me. But even with him here, I had a hard time talking. I mean I wanted to. I did. He'd ask me how I was doing, and I could feel my mouth open, like I was trying to say something, trying to answer him, but nothing would come out.
> 
> It seems like all I do is wander aimlessly around the house, like I have become some sort of zombie, still able to move, but no longer really alive. When Sam was here, he would sit next to me on the couch for hours on end, holding my hand or rubbing my back — just sitting there. I think Sam knew that just being there was the best thing, and I think that maybe he was afraid to say the wrong thing so saying nothing was safer — which is probably true.
> 
> I don't think I ever realized what a good friend Sam could be. He'd always seemed kind of flaky and young, like a puppy — cute but not terribly useful. But when he was here, I could tell that he was really trying hard to be a good friend, and he took it seriously. I'll never forget him walking into the bedroom with tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on a tray for me. There he was, standing there all proud of himself, and I had to laugh because Sam never cooks. But then, when I realized I was laughing, I felt guilty, like I was breaking some rule that said, so long as Steve is gone, no laughing, no happiness, no getting on with life.
> 
> I know that Steve's next film is scheduled to start shooting in Montreal on August 7. I've been thinking I should just fly up there and see him, see him and try to take back everything I said, and ask him to come home. I want to. But I'm afraid that I will say the wrong thing and that if I do I'll never get another chance to fix this. So I have to make sure that I find the right words. The right words. That's the key.

August 2, 2016, Montreal, 11:45 P.M.

Steve was sitting on the floor of his suite at the Intercontinental, wearing only his boxer shorts, and leaning against the edge of the bed. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the carpet while his left hand slowly squeezed his thigh. He'd lost at least fifteen pounds while in Seattle — his "baby fat" as Bucky used to call it — and now his chest and legs and arms were more tautly defined than he'd remembered them ever being.

When the director had seen him at this morning's costume fitting, standing there in white briefs while the costume designer took his measurements, he'd said, "You look great Steve. Really great!"

Steve had met the director's too admiring gaze with a less than admiring one of his own and laughed. "Yeah I guess all that beer and whiskey really did the trick."

Now the shooting script was open and resting on Steve's lap. He knew he should be studying his lines, but he couldn't concentrate. It was almost like he had forgotten how to read, how to understand words. He could see the words, and he could say the words, but it was like the words had no meaning anymore, like they'd been drained of all sense. This might as well be Russian, Steve thought, absent-mindedly turning a page, but not bothering to look at it.

Steve stood up and walked to the window that made up most of one wall in the bedroom of his suite. For several minutes, Steve leaned his forehead against the cold glass and watched headlights stream across the Jacques Cartier bridge, an old and graceful suspension bridge that spanned the St. Lawrence River, and connected the island city of Montreal to the river's north shore.

After a few minutes, Steve stepped back from the window and picked the script up off the floor. The first read-through was tomorrow morning, and Steve knew he'd never be ready — it was already too late for that. Still, he wanted to try. Like his grandpa had always said, it isn't really a failure unless you tried.

Steve was dressed and outside the hotel in ten minutes, the script tucked under his arm. I need to find some place that isn't so damn quiet, he thought. And maybe have a few beers. Then I can sit and read this thing and get it over with.

Steve walked south up Beaver Hall Road toward Rene-Levesque Boulevard. He had been to Montreal before, so Steve had a general idea where he was heading, despite the fact that he had no clear destination in mind. Steve didn't want to get too far from the hotel, but he also didn't want to go somewhere packed full of tourists either. He wanted to be left alone to read his script. And to have a few beers.

As he neared Rene-Levesque Boulevard, Steve noticed a small neon-lit sign that read Westside Bar. That could be good, he thought.

Steve walked up to the nondescript glass door that fronted stairs leading down to what looked like a small, dark bar in the basement of the building. Perfect, Steve thought, opening the door and descending twelve stairs to a small landing, turning left, and then descending ten more stairs to the bar itself.

The room was maybe 75 feet across and 25 feet wide, and it had a circular bar in the middle of the room, surrounded by eighteen or so stools. Looking to his right, Steve noticed five slot machines tucked into the corner next to a small pool table. Two young men — neither of whom were wearing shirts — smoked and played pool, looking up only to watch Steve as he headed to the bar and sat down.

"Bonsoir, monsieur," the bartender said as Steve sat down. "Comment allez- vous? Que aimez-vous boire? Que diriez-vous de d'une bière?"

Steve opened the script in front of him, and looked up at the bartender and shrugged. "Sorry — I don't speak French."

"That's okay," the bartender said, switching to English barely a pause. "I speak English too. My name is Francis."

"Hi Francis," Steve said, reaching up to shake the bartender's outstretched hand, but not offering his own name in return. "I'll have a Molson Special X, please."

"Sure thing," said Francis, turning to get the beer. "Do you need a glass?"

"The bottle is fine," Steve said, laying a hundred dollar bill on the bar and sliding it toward the bartender. "And keep the tab open, okay?"

"Sure thing," said Francis again.

August 3, 2016, San Diego, 12:25 A.M.

> Sam called today and asked me if I would produce his next album. I worked on two songs for him on his last album two years ago — the first solo album he'd done — and doing that was pretty cool. Now he wants me to do the whole album, every song, which is crazy, because I've never done a whole album before — except for Avengers, and I never really got credit for that. I told him that I'd think about it.
> 
> Sam asked how I was doing and, this time, I was actually able to talk to him about some of this stuff, and not even cry. One thing I told him was that I was scared that I'd stop being sad, that I was scared that time would just pass and I'd just get back into a routine, and life would just go on, and get to be almost normal, and Steve would just be gone — like a favorite pair of sunglasses you've misplaced and can't find — a loss, but not a big deal. Sam said I got to let myself heal eventually. And I guess that's right, and I guess I know that, but I also know that, if an arm gets cut-off, the doctors try to reattach it, and Steve was more important to me than my arm.
> 
> I miss Steve so much, and basically all I think about now is how to get back with him. I think when I told him to get out it was just this sudden huge anger I couldn't control, it was like for a moment I stopped loving him, really stopped loving him, and I couldn't stand the idea of living with him if it couldn't be like it was before. It was almost like I cut off my own arm, like it was pain that I inflicted on myself. But why?
> 
> Everything seemed to change after he came back from Europe, after shooting The Ghost Road. It was like he was a different person somehow — not completely different, but changed in some way that I didn't understand and he could not explain. It was almost like he had been in a real war, like he'd fought some sort of real battle, fought it and lost. But I could never figure out what battle he'd fought, or what it was he'd lost, or how to ask without it sounding like I was blaming him for something.
> 
> And it was when Steve got back from Europe that he started sleeping around — going out and picking up strangers and having one night stands — which was something I convinced myself I had to tolerate, even though it made me really sad and angry. I suppose I never doubted that we were still, in some unchangeable way, together, and that I was still his partner and his friend and his lover and whatever other useless and inadequate words someone might use to describe it. But I also think I was kidding myself about how angry it really made me.
> 
> And, of course, I knew that Steve had never been with a guy before me, that I was his first and only until then, so I figured that I owed it to him to let him mess around — if that was what he needed to do. (Was it?) But it was almost like he resented me for looking the other way, like what he really wanted was for me to demand that he stop, and when I didn't it just kept getting worse, and he got more and more angry and distant, and I didn't know what to do. It got to the point like he was almost rubbing my face in it, daring me to get mad at him, daring me to say STOP IT Steve, STOP IT. I DON'T WANT TO SHARE YOU WITH ANYONE. YOU'RE MINE!!!
> 
> But, I couldn't do it. I was too afraid he'd refuse to stop, or tell me that he didn't care. And, anyway, I wasn't sure I that I had the right to ask even though we'd been together for over six years at that point, and he'd promised to always be faithful, and I'd promised too, and I'd kept my promise, and he hadn't. Still, I trusted him, and trusted his love for me, trusting him to not harm what we had together, our love for each other, and I thought it'd all just work out. So maybe, in the end, he thought I had abandoned him, abandoned us. Maybe that's it — maybe he was drowning and he just wanted to be saved, to be pulled ashore. Maybe he thought I didn't care.

But I did. I just didn't know how to say it.

August 3, 2016, Montreal, 11:40 P.M.

Sitting on the same stool as before, Steve wondered why he hadn't realized last night that the Westside was a hustler bar. The young guys playing pool without shirts on, the bartender with the dark eyes and a too-knowing smirk, the other customers all old and leering and hungry-looking. Steve knew that in a place like this you could pretty much get anything you wanted; it was there for the asking, so long as you were willing to pay for it. But what he wanted right now was to be left alone.

The blonde looked up from his script, and caught the bartender's attention. "Can I get another beer," he asked.

"Sure thing," the bartender answered, reaching into the cooler to retrieve a bottle of Molson Special X. "So what's that you're reading?"

"Just a script," Steve answered, not really wanting to get into it, but expecting that he'd have to anyway. Francis, the same bartender as from the night before, had been pretty good so far about keeping people away from him while he studied his lines, so Steve figured he owed him some kind of explanation.

"A script for what?"

"For a movie," Steve answered, taking a long swig from the bottle that Francis had sat in front of him. "I'm here making a movie and rehearsals start tomorrow so I need to learn my lines."

"A movie, huh? What's it called?" Francis smiled, thinking, Is this guy a star? That would be cool.

"Notorious," Steve said, hoping that this chat with Francis wouldn't go on for too much longer, but not wanting to be rude either. "It's a remake of a Hitchcock film."

"Oh yeah?" Francis said, raising his eyebrows. "Is it any good?"

"I don't know. We haven't made it yet."

"No," Francis said, laughing. "I mean the Hitchcock film."

"Oh," Steve said, taking another swig of beer, and noting that it was already half gone. "Yeah . . . really good. It was my . . . uhh, well, a friend of mine, it was his favorite movie. He talked me into doing the remake. I didn't really think I was going to get the part, but I did, and so . . .voila, now I'm here."

"Voila," Francis repeated. "That's French, you know."

"Is it," Steve asked. "I guess I better be careful or people are going to think I'm from around here."

"I don't think that will be a problem," Francis laughed. "So, anyway . . . after you are done studying maybe you will want some company, huh?"

Ah, Steve thought. Not just a bartender, I guess, huh Francis?

"You know," Francis continued. "If you are feeling like you don't want to be alone, maybe I can help with that, come to your hotel or something. I am good company. I can maybe help you study your script some more, or help you relax a little."

Steve smiled at Francis, admiring the boldness of his offer, its directness, and it utter lack of sentimentality. Steve had never paid anyone to have sex with him before, but the thought of it — the neatness of it — seemed suddenly attractive. It seemed safe, somehow, and without the risk of real emotion or attachment. And it was a new low.

"Yeah, that would be good," Steve said. "I'm just down the hill at the Hotel Intercontinental, Room 2325."

August 4, 2016, San Diego, 12:20 A.M.

> I got a weird phone call today. It was from Kevin Maze, the producer of Steve's last movie, The Ghost Road. Kevin said that he and the director had decided to postpone the opening one month because they wanted a theme song, something to play during the last scene of the movie and as the credits rolled.
> 
> I told him no, that I was too busy getting ready to produce Sam's album (a lie), and that I was sick at the moment and couldn't leave the house for the next few weeks (kind of the truth). I also told him that I didn't really feel right doing a song for Steve's movie without knowing if Steve wanted me to do it (mostly the truth). Kevin spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince me, but I just kept saying no — mostly because, even if I felt like it was okay to do this without talking to Steve first, I was afraid that the song might ruin the movie, and that Steve would never forgive me for that (BIG truth).
> 
> I hung up and Kevin called back twice more, practically begging the last time. But I just kept saying no, and finally he didn't call back anymore. So I went to sleep.

August 4, 2016, San Diego, 11:55 P.M.

> Kevin called back AGAIN. Actually, he called back 6 times today. The last time he called was an hour ago, just as I was about to unplug the phone so he couldn't call back, and I could go to bed.
> 
> During the last call Kevin said that he was convinced that I was the only person who could write this song, and that the song was the "final piece of the puzzle. Really, Bucky, it's the final piece and it's going to stay missing unless you agree to do this."
> 
> Then he said something that really got me. He said: "Look Bucky, Steve's performance in this film is the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life. I've never seen anything like it. It's impossible to watch it and not believe that he has been through everything that his character, Billy Prior, has been through. But, when the movie ends, and Billy . . . well, when Billy is lost, there needs to be a song, something haunting and beautiful and full of sadness for a love that's gone, because you know, it's a war story, but it's also a love story — it's about innocence lost, and it's about love that's gone."
> 
> And when Kevin said that, I couldn't say no anymore, because I knew that I could write that song. Suddenly I felt that if I didn't write this song, that I'd be letting Steve down, and I couldn't bear to do that again, not again. So I said, "Okay, I'll do it."
> 
> And that's when Kevin said, "Bucky, one more thing — we want you to sing it too."
> 
> I said, "Okay," but I was thinking, God help me.

August 5, 2016, Montreal, 12:10 A.M.

Francis had arrived less than an hour earlier and, like the night before, asked to take a shower. While Francis showered, Steve placed $500 US on a table next to the couch in the living room and then went into the bedroom to undress, sit on the edge of the bed, and wait. The night before, Francis had crouched in front of Steve, and started to give him a blow job, but Steve shook his head no and said: "Just fuck me."

This second night, after his shower, Francis had pretty much got right down to business, mounting Steve from behind, and giving it to him hard and fast, his hands still wet from the hand lotion he'd used to lubricate his cock, gripping Steve's shoulders as he pulled him back into another impaling lunge. Francis could hardly believe he was getting paid to fuck a movie star. Everyone at the Westside was jealous of him now, and Francis was feeling pretty happy about how things had managed to turn out. This is a very good gig, Francis thought as he felt himself draw close to orgasm.

Steve stared at the bridge, like he always did, and tried to imagine how many cars were on it, streaming endlessly it seemed, from the island to the mainland, going home, he imagined. Going home.

Still on his hands and knees, staring into the distance, Steve didn't realize that Francis had come, pulled out of him, and was now busy wiping himself off with a hand towel. Tossing the towel on the floor, Francis said, "Hey, we're done."

"Oh," Steve said in a near whisper, shaking his head as if to rid his mind of the image of all those cars streaming across the bridge and going home. "Right."

"So, Steve — how come you never want to fuck me?" Francis asked. "Don't you like to fuck?"

Steve turned around and lay back against the dozen or so pillows that were propped against the headboard, not bothering to cover himself with the blankets, his still soft penis nested between his thighs. He let the room fill for a moment with silence and then said: "Why, do you want me to fuck you?"

"No," said Francis. "I hate getting fucked. I was just curious."

Steve let the room fill again with silence, suddenly wishing that Francis would go, and take his curiosity with him.

Uneasy with the silence, Francis finally spoke again. "So why do you wear that ring on a chain around your neck? Why don't you wear it on your finger?"

"It doesn't feel right to wear it on my finger anymore," Steve said softly. "I . . . um, almost left it behind, but I didn't."

"Left it where," Francis asked, lifting the ring carefully off Steve's chest to examine it more closely.

"Home," said Steve, trying to make it clear from his tone that he'd rather not talk about the ring or anything related to it.

"Is it silver?" Francis asked, curious how much it might be worth.

"No — it's platinum."

"Wow," Francis said, squinting and holding the ring up to the light, causing the chain to pull uncomfortably on the back of Steve's neck. "It must have been expensive."

Steve remained silent and stared at the back of Francis' head as he continued to examine the ring.

"So what's T.I.P.Y. stand for," Francis asked, "It's engraved on the inside of the ring here. T...I...P...Y..."

"You better go now," Steve said, sitting quickly up in bed, and pulling the ring away from Francis in the process. "I have to get up real early tomorrow."

Francis paused, surprised at the sudden anger in Steve's voice, and then said, "C'est cool."

Gulping down a sob, Steve stared silently at the ring and the delicately engraved letters inside it. T. I. P. Y.

Francis could see that Steve was upset, but he didn't care. "I still want to know what those letters stand for. They can't be initials."

"No," Steve said, his voice wavering and somber. "They're not initials. But it's none of your business either. So . . .anyway. . . You should leave."

"C'est cool," Francis said smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, maybe," Steve answered, leaving it at that, and feeling nauseous.

"Okay bye," Francis said, walking to the door and opening it.

"Yeah, bye," Steve said in a voice too quiet for Francis to hear.

AUGUST 6, 2016, San Diego, 12:40 A.M.

> Getting a song started is always the hardest part. I thought about calling Kevin and asking to see the film, but decided that I'd rather write the song from my imagination. Besides, I don't think I could bear to watch it.
> 
> I went to Barnes & Noble this morning and bought a bunch of books on World War I, and spent most of the day reading about it, and looking at the most horrifying pictures of men — boys really — dead, gassed, mired in mud, shot-through and bleeding, tangled and caught on barbwire like ghastly rag dolls. What would it have been like to live in that world? It's almost unimaginable — the horror of it all.
> 
> Is this what Steve felt — even a small part of it — when he was making this movie? Is this why he insisted that I not visit him on the set, like I always had with every other movie he's made, and why when I'd call him he seemed so distant and quiet, hardly able to find the words to talk to me, except to say that he was "really, really tired," and that making the moving was "really, really hard."
> 
> And then he'd always pause and say, "There's just no end to it, Buck."
> 
> And I would say, "To what, Steve? To what?"
> 
> And he'd be quiet for a long, long time until I would say, "I love you, Steve."
> 
> And Steve would say, "I know Buck. I love you too. So just hang on, okay."
> 
> And I would say, "I will Steve. I will." And I thought he was saying, hold on because I'll be home soon, hold on and be patient. But now I think that what he was really saying was, hold on to me, don't let me go of me.
> 
> Why didn't I understand? Why did I let go?

AUGUST 7, 2016, Montreal, 11:35 P.M.

Francis noticed that Steve never really looked at him, never made eye contact. When Francis would fuck him, Steve would always close his eyes or stare out the window, making no noise at all except for an occasional, arbitrary grunt — coming more from his throat rather than his mouth, his lips always shut tight. It became a game for Francis to see if he could make Steve grunt, make him open his eyes, and by plunging in harder, by changing angles, slowing down and speeding up, trying to remind Steve that there was a person on top of him, and not a machine.

Francis knew that Steve was using him. The five hundred dollars he paid him every night was proof enough of that. But Steve was using him in another way, a way that Francis did not understand and did not think he liked. Against his will, Francis found himself wanting to connect with Steve, to find out what it was that Steve was using him for. It wasn't to replace someone. Francis had played that game dozens of times, and would recognize it in an instant. No, Steve was using him in some other way, some way that Francis had not seen before, some way that made him wary.

After Francis got off, Steve lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Francis to leave, wanting him to go, but not asking him to because he was not really sure that he wanted to be alone, and also because he knew that being with Francis was close to be alone anyway.

"So when did you two move in together?" Francis asked, intentionally returning to the subject that he knew Steve did not want to talk about, but knowing that he would.

"We'd just finished the S.H.I.E.L.D. tour," Steve said, speaking slowly as if he was pacing himself, as if he feared that there might be a shortage of words and he did not want to use them up too quickly.

"We'd been together — you know, like been committed to each other — for over three years by then, and we were tired of hiding it, tired of feeling like criminals. So we decided we needed to at least tell the guys in the band. And we'd been talking forever — like from the first day practically — about moving in together, about building a house."

"Didn't you already have a house," Francis interrupted.

"Yeah, we both did," Steve said, his words clipped and flat. "But it sucked, because that wasn't what we wanted. What we wanted was — you know, to be like a normal couple, to be together, and have a house, and just be normal. I mean, all we used to do on the tour bus was talk about the house we were going to build someday, and by the end of the tour it just was like — man, if we don't do this now, it's going to slip away, and that is so wrong."

"Weren't you scared the guys were . . . I don't know how to say in English . . . pour éclater — you know, BOOM!"

"Explode? Yeah, I guess," said Steve his voice becoming more animated. "But we didn't care. Avengers was huge at that point — I mean, I don't know how we could have gotten any bigger. And my first movie was coming out. So we just kind of felt like there was nothing we could do about how people were going to react, and if the whole thing blew up on us, well, it had been a great ride, and we'd be going out on top."

"But it didn't explode," Francis said, emphasizing the word explode, and smiling to himself for having fit it into his sentence.

"No," said Steve. "No, it didn't. The guys were all like, tell us something we don't already know. It was like they were just as relieved as us about not having to pretend anymore. It was very, very cool, and I think it really brought everyone a lot closer together — at least at first it did."

"What about other people," Francis asked. "Did you tell anyone else?"

"Not really. Not at first. I mean, we told our families pretty soon after, but it's not like we issued a press release, or put up a billboard, saying Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers are moving in together, hurray, hurray. It was almost like we didn't really need to."

Steve paused for a moment to rearrange the pillows on which his head lay, and then he continued, speaking more quietly now.

"And what was really weird is that all the bullshit rumor stuff about us being gay just kind of stopped. It was like once we stopped hiding it, no one really cared anymore. I also think that maybe people realized that we were sincere, that it was the real deal. I mean there is so much fucking fakeness in the world, and I think that people respected the fact that we were just trying to be happy and to live our lives, because, you know, it was real. It really was."

Francis could see that Steve had tears in his eyes, and could sense that Steve had run out of words, and would soon ask him to leave. Rather than being asked, Francis stood up and started to get dressed. "And so you built your house?"

"Yeah, we built the house," Steve said, turning on his side and staring at the wall. "Yeah, we did."

Francis finished dressing and let himself out, closing the door loud enough so that Steve would know that he was gone.

AUGUST 8, 2016, San Diego, 12:05 A.M.

> The melody is mostly done and I think it's good because every time I play it I nearly cry. I decided to use just piano, and I'll probably record that tomorrow morning. I have already laid down the drum and the bass tracks, which are very spare and simple — almost primitive. I may also add the chiming of a bell, but I'm not sure yet. I'd need to find the right sample because I want the bell to sound like it is ringing from very far away and only barely being heard.
> 
> Now all I have to do is get the words right, but it's not going very well. The song is about something that can't be said, about trying to put into words a feeling that can't be expressed, and about trying to say something important and true to someone who isn't there to hear it anymore, someone who is gone.
> 
> How do you write a song about something that can't be said? This is crazy.
> 
> There is this poem I found that was written by a surgeon who treated men killed during the war. It's called In Flanders Field, and one part comes close to what I want to try to put into this song.
> 
> We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
> 
> This poem was written in the voice of the fallen soldier. But my song — the song for the film, for Steve's film — needs to be in the voice of the love he left behind. The words that you would say to the love of a lifetime, if given the chance, and if said knowing that it was the last five minutes you'd ever spend together — ever.

AUGUST 8, 2016, Montreal, 11:58 P.M.

"So the director really said that he was going to fire you?" said Francis, as he took another bite from the chocolate bar he had snagged from among the pile of fruit and nuts and cheeses in the welcome basket that still sat on the coffee table in the living room.

"He threatened to," said Steve, wishing Francis would leave but at the same time never having the will to say so, at least not at first. All day he had been thinking of Bucky, knowing that it was his birthday, and wishing that he could see him, be with him, but knowing it was not possible, knowing that he could not go home, not now, not without being asked first.

"So tell me what happened," Francis said impatiently, taking another big bite of chocolate and chewing noisily.

"I kept missing my marks," Steve said with a sigh. "And forgetting my lines. It was a fucking love scene, and it was like every time I kissed Julia I'd just go blank and not remember what I was supposed to say next. So then I got pissed and pretty soon me and the director were going at it, screaming at each other. It sucked."

"Sounds like it," said Francis. "So you think he's really going to fire you?"

Steve remained silent for several minutes. Francis assumed that Steve was thinking about what the director was going to do and whether he was going to get fired. When Steve finally didn't answer, Francis decided to change the subject.

"So if you loved this guy so much — what's his name? Bucky? If you loved this guy so much why'd you leave?"

"How do you know I left," Steve asked, sitting up in bed quickly as if he'd been poked sharply in the ribs.

"Why else would I be here," Francis said, pleased with himself for having guessed right. "So tell me why you left."

"Because he asked me to," Steve said, blinking back tears and resting his chin on upraised knees. "I did it because he asked me to. And because I felt like I owed him."

Francis reached out and put his hand on Steve's shoulder, but Steve shook it off, not wanting to be touched.

"I mean, I'd been asking him for months to leave the band," Steve continued, trying to keep his voice calm and even, but mostly unable to do so. "And he did it, he left the band. And, you know what? He did it for me. He fucking did it for me, even though music was the most important thing in the world to him, and he loved being in that goddamn band. He said he loved me more."

Francis swallowed the last bit of chocolate, suddenly jealous of the feelings that Steve so obviously still held for Bucky — not so much jealous of the love, but jealous of the power that the love gave to Bucky, power that he suspected Bucky did not know he still had. It was the power that Francis was jealous of, not the love, and it was the power that Francis wanted, because it was power he did not have.

"So you must have really fucked things up good," Francis said, not trying to hide the disdain in his voice, and the complete lack of sympathy.

The words struck and stung, as Francis had intended. But in hearing these words Steve betrayed no emotion and did not flinch. He welcomed the harsh judgment explicit in the words, welcomed it like a guilty man welcomes the firing-squad bullets that will end his guilt and self-loathing.

Yes I did, Steve thought. Yes I did.

AUGUST 9, 2016, San Diego, Midnight.

> Dear Steve:
> 
> I guess my birthday is officially over now. When I woke up this morning — on the couch in my studio again, because I am working on this big project — I could barely bring myself to face another day without you, knowing how sad I'd feel (again). But then the doorbell rang and I managed to go to the door and answer it. There was a man there and he was delivering flowers: 28 long-stem red roses and one long-stem yellow rose — one for each year since I was born. There was no card, but I know they were from you.
> 
> The roses are sitting on my piano now and the room is full of their beautiful scent. I had thought that the flowers would make me sad, reminding me of how you are not here, and how much I miss you. But in some strange way the flowers have made me feel brave, brave enough to really believe that there is a way out of this.
> 
> I'm not sure what to say except that I love you, Steve, and I want you to come home. Since you left it's like I died inside. And I have, because when you left — when I let you go — I lost the only thing that every mattered to me — you. I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I do is wander around the house like some ghost, crying all the time, and hating myself for letting go of you. My life doesn't make any sense without you in it.
> 
> I'm not sure where things may have gone wrong, but it doesn't matter, Steve. All that matters is that we start again, even if it means starting all over again. There is nothing that you have ever done, or not done, or ever said or ever not said, that makes any difference to me now. And, even if there is nothing else in the world that I know, I know this — I love you, and I always will.
> 
> So, Steve, forgive me, and please come home. I promise to never let go again — EVER.
> 
> Yours always,
> 
> Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would greatly appreciate any feedback you may have! 
> 
> HUGE thanks to everyone who has left kudos or written a comment. Means the world.


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